He didn’t know where he was going, anger powering him along the ancient passageways until he finally felt the sun on his face. Tension filled his veins, the effort of holding back memories threatening to undo him. He changed direction, moving towards the stables with sudden intent. He demanded his prize stallion to be readied and wasted no time in switching his traditional robes for tight-fitting jodhpurs and well-worn boots. He did not speak to the boy who handed him the reins, impatiently launching himself up into the saddle and taking off in the direction of the sand.
With the wind on his face and the pounding of hooves under him, he finally allowed his spine to relax as he moved with his horse, their bodies in tune as he pushed the great beast to the limit. Takaa was a demon, the fastest horse he had ever owned, and right now he had never been so tempted to test his limits. Knowledge made him slow down as he got close to the boundaries of the old palace lands, veering off down the hill to where an almost dried up ravine formed a small oasis of sorts.
Takaa drank deeply and Khal splashed water onto his sun-warmed face, feeling the midday heat begin to claw at him through his thin shirt. His fists were almost white with the effort of suppressing the rage that had begun to unravel inside him in the chambers. They spoke her name as though it were a trivia, not a bomb that had the ability to tighten his gut with emotion. Grief was an obvious one; he most definitely had allowed grief to sink its mighty claws into him more than once in those first months following Priya’s sudden death. She had been his wife for five years, his rock during his father’s death and his ascent to becoming the leader he was today.
Everyone had offered him condolences and comfort and in time he had moved past it to the point where he could return to normal life. But the anger was another issue entirely. How did one resolve anger that was soul-deep when the woman who’d caused it was being lamented by their people so much they built shrines to her in the streets? Poetry was written about her beauty, her grace.
He had been left virtually alone with the knowledge of who his wife truly was. How she had betrayed him and everything their marriage stood for. How he had driven her to that betrayal with his own over-controlling measures. How did he resolve the guilt and the regret that ate away at his very soul—that things had not been different?
He growled, throwing the nearest rock at the water so hard that Takaa startled and began to pull back at the reins. He placed his palm flat on the horse’s neck, crooning low in his throat until the animal stopped resisting and leaned down to drink once more.
The memory of seeing the smoke last night, of rushing to get Cressida to safety while he was sure his heart would burst through his chest. It had brought him right back to the moment he had been told of the accident. It was as though, for a few moments of madness, both incidents had been one and the same and he was trapped in a nightmare of sorts. And then, when the danger had passed and he was sure she was safe and alive, holding Cressida in his arms while she fell apart had been almost more than he could bear. She was not a woman who lost control of herself easily; that much was painfully evident. And yet she had shown him her weakness. And how had he responded? By ravishing her at the first opportunity, beast that he was.
He had never felt such a challenge to his self-control than when he was around her. With each encounter, it felt as though he were losing his grip on a cliff face one finger at a time. She was getting under his skin and it simply could not continue. The physical attraction between them was more than inconvenient. It was a risk to the business arrangement of their marriage. They needed to keep their roles clear so that the next five years passed without incident. She would be the perfect Queen as he required her to be and he would break down the various political walls that stood in the way of his development plans with ease. Then, once their time was up, they would part without difficulty or complication.
He mounted Takaa swiftly and kicked off back to the palace, a plan in place. He would resolve this situation just as he did every other area of his life, with careful management and the complete absence of emotion.
* * *
While the dramatic details of the reasons behind their late-night arrival were kept carefully under wraps, news of the new Sheikha spread through the palace quickly. Cressida was awoken at dawn by a handful of servants and a young dress maid, who set about draping her in traditional silks and jewels. Zayyari was not one of the languages taught in her university and she found it incredibly frustrating not being able to make out a single word of what the women said as they spoke to one another in low tones, avoiding her gaze. She had the strange feeling of being a new statue on display at a museum.
She made a mental note to begin studying as soon as possible. The thought of having something even remotely connected to her previous academic accomplishments made her feel slightly less at sea in her new life. She had always felt most comfortable when she planned her goals for each term and ticked items off one by one. As she was dressed and styled with hair and make-up, she mentally listed out the materials she would need to get started.
Just as she had begun on the prospect of brand-new stationery, an older woman entered and announced herself in English as her new assistant.
‘You are expected to breakfast with the esteemed Sheikha Amala and Princess Nia this morning,’ the older woman said, scrolling down the screen of a sleek tablet as she spoke. ‘Your new mother and sister-in-law, as they are called in the West.’
‘Where will that be?’ Cressida asked, trying to conceal the sudden rumble of her stomach along with the fact that she had no knowledge of anyone in her husband’s family.
‘They live in the palace grounds,’ Rana said simply. ‘Then this afternoon we will commence your etiquette lessons, followed by cultural and language tuition.’
‘Etiquette lessons?’ Cressida repeated, her mind stumbling over the sudden weight of having an itinerary handed to her.
‘His Highness has arranged for an intensive month of tuition to make you more comfortable in the run-up to your celebration ball.’
She was to be given a ball? As in, an entire event to celebrate her? She fought the urge to flap her arms at the woman currently applying make-up to her eyelids. This was too much to absorb while sitting completely still. Taking one deep breath, followed by another, she waited for the make-up artist to move away for a moment before narrowing her gaze on her new assistant. ‘You said the Sheikh has arranged all of this?’
‘Along with his team, of course. The priority right now is for you to feel as prepared as possible in your role as Queen.’
Or did the Sheikh himself simply wish for her to be kept as busy and out of sight as possible? Cressida wondered. She didn’t know why she felt a sense of rejection that he had not chosen to at least eat breakfast with her in order to inform her of his plans. They had not spoken at all of what the day-to-day workings of their arrangement would be. He was not breaking any promises.
So why did she feel so utterly alone of a sudden?
She simply wished to ask for further news on the fire at the encampment, she told herself. She did not like being left in the dark on the matter. She would seek him out, perhaps. She would ask him for an update and perhaps clarify what was to be expected of her from this point, other than the ridiculous ball and the lessons he and a team of servants and tutors had apparently deemed necessary.
Finally, the make-up artist finished her work and stepped away. Cressida barely even glanced at her own reflection; she needed to stand and move and have a few feet of space to herself for the first time in two hours. The fact that it had taken two hours to get dressed was utterly ridiculous; she had always just put on an outfit, brushed her hair and gone about her day with minimal fuss.
‘Is everything okay, Your Highness?’
Cressida looked up from the stifling weight of her thoughts to find all three women looking at her worriedly. She straightened, remembering herself, and plastered on the most
serene royal smile she could muster in the face of her inner turmoil. ‘I’m fine. Let’s get started on the day, shall we?’
* * *
Khal’s mother and sister turned out to be surprisingly warm and inviting. Their family apartments were smaller and slightly less formal than the Sheikh’s wing. They made their introductions and she was hugged warmly by her new mother-in-law before they sat together to enjoy a warm breakfast of spiced breads, fresh fruit and hot Zayyari tea.
The Sheikha Amala was younger than Cressida had expected, a beautiful woman with perfectly applied make-up and eyes that shimmered with kindness. Princess Nia was only slightly older than Khal, with a family of her own. She spoke fondly of her two young sons, who attended an elite boarding school in Scotland for much of the year but returned to the palace for holidays. Khal’s mother did not speak any language other than her own but the Princess conversed easily in both French and English and talked wistfully of her time abroad in Paris when she was younger.
After a time, the Sheikha’s mood seemed to change as she began to speak with her daughter as translator, asking for details of the secret wedding ceremony. Cressida described the welcoming environment of the encampment, leaving out the details of the heavy security presence and the fire that brought the night to an abrupt close. No sooner had Cressida begun to describe her fascination with the symbolism on the wedding tent than the older woman stood with a loud sniff and excused herself from the room.
‘Did I say something wrong?’ Cressida asked the Princess, her worried gaze following her as the door snapped shut, leaving just the two of them.
‘My mother is deeply unhappy that Khal did not allow us to attend the wedding,’ Nia said, taking a sip of her tea. ‘He explained that it was necessary—it was to be an elopement, and none of the royal family would be present.’
‘I am sorry.’ Cressida bowed her head. ‘It all happened very fast. I’m sure he would have preferred to have you there.’
Nia smiled sadly. ‘I think she is upset because she knows that is not the case.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I have two sons. I know my heart would break to find one of them had shut himself off from me. My brother has been like a stranger to us these past few years. He grieved for a long time. I know it well, such grief. I lost my own husband after only three years of marriage. A loss like that leaves a hole in your soul.’ Nia sighed. ‘Grief can be so destructive...it takes a part of you with the one you lost.’
The young woman’s eyes filled with tears and Cressida felt the urge to reach out and embrace her. Thinking that might be a tad too familiar for a first meeting, she settled for a single solemn pat on her hand. Nia smiled, wiping away the single tear that had escaped her heavily made-up eyes.
‘I imagine it is not enjoyable to think of your husband when he was so entwined with another.’ She winced. ‘I did not think before I spoke.’
‘Love is not a fundamental part of this particular marriage,’ Cressida said carelessly, regretting the words as soon as they escaped her mouth. ‘What I mean is...’
‘It has not been disclosed by my brother, but I had a feeling that this had something to do with politics.’ The Princess smiled. ‘Don’t worry; your secret is safe with me.’
‘Thank you. And I’m sorry for your loss.’
The older woman shook her head gently. ‘I am grateful for my position. I have my brother to watch over my sons as they grow into young men. I have time to spend with my mother, though she can be a little dramatic.’ She laughed good-naturedly.
Cressida found herself smiling, a real smile. She liked Khal’s sister very much and it was nice to know there was someone here to talk to who was not employed by Khal to watch over her or transform her into the perfect Queen. All too soon, their time was up and Nia rushed off to attend to her mother.
Cressida left the family apartments and trailed behind her assistant for an extensive tour of the palace grounds. The historical Grand Palace compound was almost three hundred years old but showed clear signs of renovation in certain places. Her assistant pointed out the renovations as scars of the wartimes when the palace had been damaged by rebels. Cressida thought of Khal and his determination to have his kingdom accepted by the world despite the violence in Zayyar’s past. How many other areas of this beautiful kingdom had been destroyed and rebuilt?
In the cavernous portrait gallery, she was shown depictions of Zayyar’s past rulers. Fierce-looking men with long beards and swords sheathed by their sides. As the paintings became more modern, she instantly recognised the face of Khal’s mother, by the side of an older man. The old Sheikh had kind eyes, not too different from those of his son. The family resemblance was quite strong.
The next picture portrayed a young Khal alongside a beautiful raven-haired woman. Cressida paused, looking up at the picture of her husband and his original Queen. She was a stunning beauty, all dark features and effortless grace. He was entitled to still be in love with his dead wife, she reminded herself. Theirs was not a marriage built on the pretence of love or even affection. If anything, it should make things easier knowing that he was emotionally unavailable.
She forced herself to move away from the shadow of the woman who had captured her husband’s heart, knowing that such a matter should not concern her. She was an instrument of political influence, not a true wife, and she would be a lot happier if she kept that thought front and foremost in her head.
Learning a new language was her favourite pastime in the whole world, so when she sat down to her first Zayyari lesson with her personal tutor, naturally she expected to feel the same passion and excitement that always came over her with a new academic challenge. But after half an hour she still could not pull her thoughts away from her talk with Nia and the mysterious scandal of the late Sheikha’s death. Seeing the picture of Khal with Priya had got under her skin. Why did she feel the urge to compare herself to the dark-eyed beauty? To wonder if Khal compared her too. She had already known that she was second choice to her sister Olivia to be his bride. She had been able to rationalise that as Olivia was older and more famous than she was.
But she could not rationalise how she felt in this moment. A sensation prickled in her chest, peculiarly like jealousy, and she pushed it away, throwing herself into her lessons for the day and determined not to think of the Sheikh at all.
Or his beautiful lost love.
CHAPTER SIX
THE NEXT DAY, once again, the Sheikh was nowhere to be found. Still, he made his presence known by ensuring she had meetings with various advisors whose sole purpose was to groom her to become his perfect Sheikha. She took another more detailed tour of the palace and grounds, accompanied by guards, of course, and tried not to be completely overwhelmed at the prospect of memorising the various winding mile-long corridors.
The royal compound had to be at least twice the size of the palace in Monteverre and it was filled with a history that fascinated her. To her delight, her request for a few books on the history of Zayyar led to her being introduced to an entire wing of the palace filled with the royal collections of art, sculptures and, best of all, books. Thousands and thousands of books.
Still, she spent the afternoon looking over her shoulder, expecting to find him standing in a doorway or walking towards her with that dark unreadable gaze. Not that she was waiting for him, she told herself. Really, she was quite glad to have the time to adjust to her new surroundings without feeling as if he was scrutinising her every move. She dined alone in her suite, a simple meal of traditional slow-cooked meats and fragrant rice. Afterwards she took an idle stroll down the corridor towards the Sheikh’s wing, casually slowing as she passed the large gilded double doors.
‘His Highness has gone to Valar for meetings,’ her bodyguard said quietly.
‘Of course.’ She nodded, as though she knew exactly where her husband was and what he was doing. ‘I thought this was the way to the garden terrace.’ When she wa
s kindly redirected to her destination she spent barely a moment looking around the exotic plants before returning to her room, feeling utterly foolish for leaving in the first place.
Valar was the new city on the coast; she had read about it in her studies. It was where her ball was to be held at the beginning of next month. She felt her mild irritation grow into a more solid simmering displeasure at her new husband’s disappearing act. Was it so unrealistic to expect a single conversation with one’s husband? She set to practising in her mind what she would say when she eventually saw him.
The next day passed in exactly the same fashion; meals were taken alone in her suite, except for a pleasant mid-morning tea with Nia. Aside from that, the only company she had were the various people in the Sheikh’s employ, all of whom called her ‘Your Highness’ and did not make eye contact. Still, she took it in her stride, taking advantage of the pool of knowledge at her fingertips in the library and enjoying the heat of the sun on her face on a leisurely walk in the gardens.
After only two full days at the palace, she found herself longing for the calm of the evening when she could close the door of her private apartment and be completely alone. There were guards outside and a maid came to check in occasionally but, for the most part, she was left to her own devices. So far, that meant immediately changing into her pyjamas and camping out by the open balcony doors to read the books she had found on Zayyar’s fascinating history and traditions. Occasionally she would look up and catch sight of the sprawling desert laid out beyond the palace walls, further than the eye could see. It took her breath away every time, the raw beauty of this place and how completely untouched it was. She had not expected to feel so calmed by the desert, or so drawn to it.
Her current reading material consisted mainly of books on the history of Zayyar and its customs but she had also taken time to learn the language of her new home outside the formal tutor-led lessons. She had always enjoyed exploring a new language on her own terms, finding the true rhythm of it by herself. As Sheikha, she would be expected to be knowledgeable and respectful of her nation’s traditions but she did not necessarily have to become fluent in their language. She simply could not resist the idea of an entirely new tongue to perfect and actually have the chance to use it on a daily basis. It was something to keep her mind busy, she told herself, as her husband seemed to have zero interest in her company.
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